"No one must get in, you understand? No one! The army is saved, Colonel, saved!"

"Alleluia," Dumesnil said dryly.

"I shall inform Marshal Massena that you are responsible for the safety of these supplies," Poquelin said pompously.

Dumesnil leaned from the saddle. "Marshal Massena himself gave me my orders, little man," he said, "and I obey my orders. I don't need more from you."

"You need more men," Poquelin said, worried because the two squads of dragoons, barring the street on either side of the warehouse doors, were already holding back crowds of hungry soldiers. "Why are those men here?" he demanded petulantly.

"Because rumor says there's food in there," Dumesnil flicked his sword towards the warehouse, "and because they're hungry. But for Christ's sake stop fretting! I have enough men. You do your job, Poquelin, and stop telling me how to do mine."

Poquelin, content that he had done his duty by stressing to Dumesnil how important the food was, went to find Colonel Barreto who was waiting with Major Ferreira and the alarming Ferragus beside the warehouse doors. "It is all good," Poquelin told Barreto. "There is even more than you told us!"

Barreto translated for Ferragus who, in turn, asked a question. "The gentleman," Barreto said to Poquelin, his sarcasm obvious, "wishes to know when he will be paid."

"Now," Poquelin said, though it was not in his power to issue payment. Yet he wanted to convey the good news to Massena, and the Marshal would surely pay when he heard that the army had more than enough food to see it to Lisbon. That was all that was needed. Just to reach Lisbon, for even the British could not empty that great city of all its supplies. A treasure trove waited in Lisbon and now the Emperor's Army of Portugal had been given the means to reach it.

The dragoons moved aside to let Poquelin and his companions through. Then the horsemen closed up again. Scores of hungry infantrymen had heard about the food and they were shouting that it should be distributed now, but Colonel Dumesnil was quite ready to kill them if they attempted to help themselves. He sat, hard-faced, unmoving, his long sword drawn, a soldier with orders, which meant the food was in secure hands and the Army of Portugal was safe.

Sharpe and Harper made the return run to the roof where Vicente and Sarah waited. Vicente was bent over in apparent pain, while Sarah, her black silk dress gleaming with spots of fresh blood, looked pale. "What happened?" Sharpe asked.

In reply she showed Sharpe the bloodstained knife blade. "I did get the bullet out," she said in a small voice.

"Well done."

"And lots of cloth scraps," she added more confidently.

"Even better," Sharpe said.

Vicente leaned back against the tiles. He was barechested and a new bandage, torn from his shirt, was crudely wrapped about his shoulder. Blood had oozed through the cloth.

"Hurts, eh?" Sharpe asked.

"It hurts," Vicente said dryly.

"It was difficult," Sarah said, "but he didn't make a noise."

"That's because he's a soldier," Sharpe said. "Can you move your arm?" he asked Vicente.

"I think so."

"Try," Sharpe said. Vicente looked appalled, then understood the sense in the order and, flinching with pain, managed to raise his left arm, which suggested the shoulder joint was not mangled. "You're going to be right as rain, Jorge," Sharpe said, "so long as we keep that wound clean." He glanced at Harper. "Maggots?"

"Not now, sir," Harper said, "only if the wound goes bad."

"Maggots?" Vicente asked faintly. "Did you say maggots?"

"Nothing better, sir," Harper said enthusiastically. "Best thing for a dirty wound. Put the little buggers in, they clean it up, leave the good flesh, and you're good as new." He patted his haversack. "I always carry a half-dozen. Much better than going to a surgeon because all those bastards ever want to do is cut you up."

"I hate surgeons," Sharpe said.

"He hates lawyers," Vicente said to Sarah, "and now he hates surgeons. Is there anyone he likes?"

"Women," Sharpe said, "I do like women." He was looking over the city, listening to screams and shots, and he knew from the noise that French discipline had crumbled. Coimbra was in chaos, given over to lust, hate and fire. Three plumes of smoke were already boiling from the narrow streets to obscure the clear morning sky and he suspected more would soon join them. "They're firing houses," he said, "and we've got work to do." He bent down and scooped up some pigeon dung that he pushed into the barrels of Harper's volley gun. He used the stickiest he could find, carefully placing a small amount into each muzzle. "Ram it down, Pat," he said. The dung would act as wadding to hold the balls in place when the barrels were tipped downwards, and what he planned would mean pointing the gun straight down. "Do many of the houses here have student quarters?" he asked Vicente.

"A lot, yes."

"Like this one?" He gestured at the roof beside them. "With rooms stretching through the attic?"

"It's very common," Vicente said, "they are called republican, some are whole houses, others are just parts of houses. Each one has its own government. Every member has a vote, and when I was here they…

"It's all right, Jorge, tell me later," Sharpe said. "I just hope the houses opposite the warehouse are a republica." He should have looked when he was there, but he had not thought of it. "And what we need now," he went on, "are uniforms."

"Uniforms?" Vicente asked.

"Frog uniforms, Jorge. Then we can join the carnival. How are you feeling?"

"Weak."

"You can rest here for a few minutes," Sharpe said, "while Pat and I get some new clothes."

Sharpe and Harper edged back down the gutter and climbed through the open window into the deserted attic. "My ribs bloody hurt," Sharpe complained as he straightened up.

"Did you wrap them?" Harper asked. "Never get better unless you wrap them up."

"Didn't want to see the angel of death," Sharpe grumbled. The angel of death was the battalion doctor, a Scotsman whose ministrations were known as the last rites.

"I'll wrap the buggers for you," Harper said, "when we've a minute." He went to the doorway and listened to voices below. Sharpe followed him down the stairs, which they took slowly, careful not to make too much noise. A girl began screaming on the next floor. She stopped suddenly as if she had been hit, then started again. Harper reached the landing and moved towards the door where the screaming came from.

"No blood," Sharpe whispered to him. A uniform jacket sheeted with new blood would make them too distinctive. Men's voices came from the lower floor, but they were taking no interest in the girl above. "Make it fast," Sharpe said, edging past the Irishman, "and brutal as you like."

Sharpe pushed the door open and kept moving, seeing three men in the room. Two were holding the girl on the floor while the third, a big man who had stripped off his jacket and lowered his breeches to his ankles, was just getting down on his knees when Sharpe's rifle butt took him in the base of his skull. It was a vicious blow, hard enough to throw the man forward onto the girl's naked belly. Sharpe reckoned the man had to be out of the fight, drew the rifle back and hit the left-hand man on the jaw and he heard the bone crack and saw the whole jaw twist awry. He sensed the third man going down to Harper's blow and finished off the man with the broken jaw by another slam of the brass-sheathed butt to the side of his skull. By the feel of the blow he had fractured the man's skull, then he was gripped around the legs by the first man who had somehow survived the initial assault. The man, hampered by his lowered breeches, clawed at Sharpe's groin, unbalancing him, then the heavy butt of the volley gun slammed into the back of his skull and he slid down, groaning. Harper gave him a last tap as a keepsake.